21. Ace in the Hole
TWENTY-ONE
ACE IN THE HOLE
Jules
I’m in Munchkin Land.
Or at least, that’s what it feels like.
Up in the International Space Station, I’m no stranger to sleeping in small nooks and crannies. But without zero gravity taking the pressure off my joints, sleeping in Trish’s small, twin-sized bed really fucking sucks.
My knee bangs into the wall, again , as I try and get comfortable. “Damn it.”
I was not built for this tin can.
After a few more tosses, a few more turns and a hell of lot more cursing, I give up.
Between planning the various ways I could castrate a certain cowboy, followed by replaying all the things I could’ve said or done differently between us, sleep isn’t about to come easy.
Especially when all that second-guessing myself brings me full circle into wanting to junk punch Holt, and my anger spikes again.
Tonight, besides the cramped accommodations, I’m also hyper aware of every noise outside these metal walls. From the distant sound of midnight traffic on Route 96 to the closer, more populated chirping of crickets right outside my door.
All day the stalker has been silent. No threats, no pictures or gifs—nothing.
And that makes me incredibly nervous.
Pain shoots up my foot when I stub my toe on the desk that’s butted up to the foot of the bed. Her bed is wedged into the corner, with one wall butted up along its side, the other acting as a pseudo headboard. How Trish sleeps in this coffin-like atmosphere is beyond me.
“Okay.” I throw back the covers, hitting my hand on the wall. “Fuck this.”
Groaning, I sit up, careful not to hit anything else, and scoot off the one open side of the bed. Before shuffling off to the living area, I grab the shotgun I have propped up against the wall, which, as per Trish’s instructions, I keep loaded and nearby at night.
Probably to defend against the wicked witch in case she comes flying in with her monkeys.
Hunching my shoulders as I walk keeps me from hitting my head on the curved ceiling unless I veer too far off from the center, but in my exhausted daze my foot knocks over a basket half-stuffed under her desk.
Son of a bitch . With a half sigh, half whine, I flick on the desk lamp and drop to my knees to gather the scattered notebooks. Why Trish has a basket of notebooks, I have no idea. The woman chooses to live in metal purgatory; maybe notebooks is part of the charm.
Crazy Southerner.
A title, scrawled in pink sharpie, catches my eye. Georgia Heat.
Well, well, well. What do we have here?
Someone to Watch Over, Cowboy’s Charm, One Night Lover
I grab Georgia Heat and flip through it.
Oh, Trish, you dirty, dirty girl.
Enjoying the thought of the Southern shortie’s future interrogation, I restock the notebooks. In one step, I’m in the kitchen and I pause to slide out the folding chair from between the cabinets. Two steps more get me to the couch.
I know the couch is a pull-out, but I don’t even bother. I just flop down like I’m going to watch TV (which there isn’t one even if I wanted to), tuck a throw pillow behind my head, and use the chair as an ottoman, finally stretching out my legs.
A metal bar digs into my ass even through the seat cushion. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I don’t even recognize my own voice it’s so whiney.
My condo, though already on the stalker’s radar, isn’t looking too bad at this point. Facing some psycho can’t be worse than this. And if I can just get my brain to pretend to be stupid, then I’ll be able to delude myself into thinking that the stalker’s silence today means they’ve given up.
Sighing for the umpteenth time, I start my meditative techniques. But each time I close my eyes I see Holt. His wide eyes as he enters me. His soft smile as he watches me pet Cookie. His hard expression as he calls me a disingenuous flirt.
Bang! Bang! Bang !
Startled, my legs slip off the folding chair, crashing onto the floor and jarring my bones.
What in the flaming fuck ?
“Open up! It’s the law!” a man shouts from outside.
An instant later I’m alert, mind cleared, shotgun cocked and in hand. I may have been out of the service for a while, but there are some things you just don’t forget.
Carefully, I push up one of the slats in the front window blinds. From my angle I can see a man of average height dressed in a short-sleeve button-down and khaki pants. No cruiser, no badge.
It’s the stalker. This is the moment. My hand tightens on the gun. I can feel the rush of adrenaline as it floods my body.
I take a step toward the door.
Bang! Bang! “I know you’re in there, Patty. It’s time to come home, little lady.”
Wait, what? My hand, outstretched for the door handle, pauses. Did he say Patty?
Where adrenaline flowed, now there’s anger. How dare some khaki-wearing ass frighten me?
I mean, not that I was that frightened. Just a little. More like a surprise feeling than frightened.
The hand now resting on the handle is shaking.
Annoyed at myself, as well at whoever is out there, I throw open the door and jam the barrel of the shot gun right up to the metal screen. “Who the fuck are you?”
The douche-canoe jumps back, hands up. “Whoa, whoa.” His small eyes widen in shock. “No need for a gun.” He swallows hard. “Let’s just calm down, okay?”
“This from the guy who was just trying to bang my door down while impersonating an officer of the law.” I rake my glare over the guy.
He’s soft, no muscle tone, with pasty white skin that shines in the near streetlight.
A ginormous dark brown mustache that in no way matches the few strings of light brown hair on his head hangs heavy over his lips.
Why is it that when men start going bald they think they can compensate by growing facial hair?
Newsflash—your noggin’s still naked, dude.
The guy smacks his lips under his snot catcher. “I’m sorry, I thought you were Miss Patty.”
“There is no Miss Patty here.” My gaze flits to the sides, making sure he’s alone. “Even so, that doesn’t explain why you said you were a police officer.”
“Well, I’m not a police officer per se…” His tongue darts out, licking the underside of his mustache.
I nearly gag.
He lowers one hand but stops when I jab the gun into the screen again.
“I’m just grabbing my badge.” Keeping his eyes on the gun, which shows he isn’t a complete moron, he slowly reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a flip wallet. He lets it drop open, showing me an I.D. “Gary Ranos, Private Investigator.” A Georgia flag is stamped in the corner.
“Still not a cop.” But I lower my gun a bit, intrigued.
Blowing out a heavy breath, he puts his badge back and gestures toward Trish’s old-ass truck. “No, but that there is Patricia Lorraine Garret’s vehicle. And she is wanted by the Georgia police.”
Patricia. Patty. Trish .
The moving around. Living in a trailer. The secretive past. Pulling her gun on me when I showed up unannounced.
Between this and the notebooks, that short stack of ours has some serious explaining to do.
Douche-canoe smacks his lips again. “It’s very important that I speak with her.”
I’m pretty sure the smile I give him is more bared teeth than anything. PR would not be pleased. “I’m sure it is.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nods, rocking back on his heels, thin strands of hair falling out of their combover. “So if you’ll be so kind as to tell me where Miss Patty is, I can just be on my way.”
“Oh, you’ll be on your way all right.” I raise the gun once more.
“Because whether or not that truck belongs to Patricia Whoever-you-said” — I raise the gun to his eye level — “this right here is a Browning Superposed, break-action, double barrel shotgun. And it tells me that you’ll be on your way regardless. ”
His hands go up again and he takes a large step back. “Now, ma’am?—”
“And if that doesn’t quite motivate your feet to get going, there’s always the call into the actual police I made just as soon as you started banging on my door.
” I tilt my head as if I’m listening. “In fact, we should hear sirens any minute. I wonder if that lame P.I. badge of yours is licensed outside the state of Georgia?”
He doesn’t speak, but his shifty eyes answers for me and he takes another step back. “I, uh…”
Making sure to keep my finger off the trigger, I jam the gun hard against the metal screen, the loud noise making Private Dickless jump before turning and scurrying back to his car, which I now see is parked a ways down the road.
It’s one of those electric, toy-looking cars. No wonder I didn’t hear it.
Once he’s in and peeling out of the RV park as fast as his little electric engine can go, I let myself relax and take stock. Trish’s security door has a big-ass dent in it, and I think I scratched up the barrel of her gun.
But considering she’s apparently wanted by the law, I don’t think she’ll hold the damages over my head.
Closing the main door, I make sure to latch and turn every lock before staggering back to the couch from hell.
I consider calling Miss Patty , but she’s safely tucked in up in Rose’s ivory downtown tower, so no use in her not sleeping either. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. At least until you get eight hours of sleep.
Jesus, I’d settle for just one hour right about now.
A notification lights up my phone. Another unknown number.
Sliding open the screen, I’m greeted with my official NASA headshot.
My stalker has gotten creative and turned it into a gif.
I watch my image’s eyes crossed out with flashing x’s, like a cartoon character dying over and over. Sighing, I blank the screen.
You know your life has taken a dark turn when an implied death threat from your unknown stalker feels reassuring. I let my head drop back, resigned to having a matching bruise on my ass in the morning.
Hours later, just as the sun starts to bake this oven on wheels, sleep finds me.
It finds me with a shotgun braced on my lap, but it finds me.
Holt
“Appliances are in!”